Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  Rostam smiled. “Perhaps you are correct. Even their Justice Department supports the building of our mosques. You are a good teacher.”

  Mohammed took a sip of tea before continuing. “Americans are mindless. They refuse to drill for their own oil, seeking to protect the environment. They do not care that their petrodollars have long funded our cause.”

  “So when they are conquered, they will have clear skies,” said Rostam, grinning.

  “Inshallah,” said Mohammed. If Allah wills.

  All three laughed.

  “Their days are numbered. Whoever has the sword will have the earth. Very soon the battle flag of jihad will be flying over the White House, their Stars and Stripes a mere footnote in the history books,” added Rostam.

  Mohammed’s voice rose slightly as he leaned forward in the chair looking past the two men. “We do not have to be satisfied with mosque building. We were not sent here to ‘convince’ through their political system. We are here to remind the infidels that September 11, 2001, is the model, not the exception. We are here to strike fear in the hearts and minds of the infidels and rejoice when they are slain. The Prophet has told us, ‘The writ of Islam will be obeyed in every country and must be pressed by force.’ It is our mission to make it so when the time is right.”

  Rostam nodded. “All that you say is true. But to wage war we need money. Much of our funding from the Islamic charities has been cut off. We can no longer count on financial support from our friends who have been so generous in the past. The sanctions against Tehran have hurt us the most.”

  “You are correct, Rostam,” Mohammed said with a smile. “That is why the Prophet instructed us in the holy book and the Hadith to destroy our enemies and always be alert to making new allies; new friends. And now our spiritual leaders have done so.”

  The cell leader had the full attention of his protégés. Rostam spoke first: “Who are our new friends?”

  Mohammed waited a moment and then said, “The people of North Korea.”

  Kareem still said nothing, but Rostam was stunned. “How do you know this? How will the North Koreans help us with our jihad here in California?”

  Mohammed cut him off. “I know this because I have received a communication from our sponsors in Beirut. They have told me that a great agreement has been forged between the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Included in this covenant is an arrangement for providing us with funds to carry out our mission.”

  “How will they do this?” asked Rostam.

  “Through North Korean enterprises operating in this country,” replied the teacher.

  “You mean their black market in knockoff cigarettes, jeans, and watches?” Rostam was clearly uncomfortable with the idea. He leaned forward and asked quietly, “Mohammed, please tell me, how did you receive this message.”

  The imam cum cell leader reached into a pocket, pulled out two cheap throwaway cell phones, slid one to each of his co-conspirators, and said, “From now on we are going to use phones like these. They can be bought at Walmart for twenty-five dollars. Use only cash to buy them. Make or receive no more than five calls of less than a minute each and then smash the phone, throw it away, and get a new one. Make sure I have your new number each time you get a new phone. From now on, this is how we will communicate when we cannot meet face-to-face.”

  “But why must we communicate this way?” asked Rostam.

  “Because,” answered Mohammed, “thanks to the defector Snowden we now know how the NSA collects information. This will make it much harder for them to intercept our communications in what they call ‘real time.’ ”

  Rostam nodded and said, “How will they get the money to us?”

  “I don’t know the details yet. All they have told me is that it’s through North Korean enterprises in this country,” said Mohammed.

  “And you believe them?” said Rostam. “They’ve told us before that money was coming and it never got here.”

  Finally Kareem spoke up. “I don’t know about agreements with Iran, but we all know Korean businesses generate lots of cash.”

  Rostam’s tone and expression revealed his skepticism. “How do you know what they make? Because they pay you so well at their infidel bar, shaming the word of Allah, that you are able to share your meager tips with us?”

  Before Kareem could react to the insult, Mohammed intervened. “Kareem is working there at my direction. We need him there to protect our interests.”

  Unconvinced, Rostam stared at Kareem and asked, “And just how much money does your employer Henry Yeong make on his counterfeit goods that he would have something to spare for us?”

  Kareem thought for a moment, doing the math in his head, and said, “I don’t know all his overhead or exactly how many partners he has to pay off, but in addition to the cigarettes, phony-label clothing, watches, handbags, athletic shoes, and luggage, he’s also moving knockoff Viagra, OxyContin, meth, and ecstasy. My guess is he grosses somewhere in the neighborhood of five million a month.” Kareem paused to let the figure sink in, knowing his importance was about to increase in the eyes of Rostam and the teacher. “And if what I’ve learned is true we should be able to pick up a quick three million in the next few days.”

  Rostam choked on the tea he was sipping as he and Mohammed fixed their gaze on the recent convert.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CIA “NOC” Gabe Chong, or “Cheech” as he was known to his Marine Corps friends, stood transferring his weight from one leg to the other, occasionally leaning up against the wall. He remained focused on the activities of the others, shifting his eyes back and forth, watching all in attendance. Six young, athletic Asian males surrounded the two older men sitting at a table in the center of the room.

  The occasion: an extraordinary meeting between the two most powerful Asian crime bosses in Los Angeles, Henry Yeong and Park Soon Yong. The venue: Henry Yeong’s restaurant. By agreement, each “don” was accompanied by three security men. They were paired off in a circle around the table.

  Gabe’s sport coat was open. His weapon, a Daewoo DP51 given to him by the supervisor of Yeong’s PSD, rested comfortably in a shoulder holster and was easily accessible. He wanted to give the appearance of being relaxed, so he engaged his partner from Park’s detail in quiet conversation while they waited for the two principals to begin the meeting.

  The hastily called dinner meeting at Yeong’s restaurant had been convened by Henry Yeong—to deal with the instructions he had received from Pyongyang and the matter of Cho Hee Sun’s execution. Yeong suspected Park of being behind the murder and thought it was likely perpetrated by Park’s security personnel. Park, on the other hand, knew he had not called for the execution and suspected either an outside organization or an unrelated reason for Cho’s death. Park ordered his men to watch Yeong’s people and be on the lookout for potential intruders from the outside. There were no other patrons in the restaurant, as a sign in English and Korean greeted would-be customers with an awkward “Sorry, Closed for Private Party, Come Please Again.”

  Gabe watched as Candy repeatedly refilled the empty cups of the two men seated at the table, offering all her coveted smile.

  It had been three days since the body of Yeong’s criminal associate, Cho Hee Sun—“Sonny” to the Americans—was discovered at his Beverly Hills residence, a single gunshot to the head. Cho’s brother, originally an informant for the U.S. Secret Service—and now a CIA asset—had convinced the North Korean Ministry of State Security to hire Gabe for Yeong’s PSD when two members of the crime boss’s security detail were arrested in Hong Kong.

  Gabe had been on the job for more than a month, but other than lots of frequent-flyer miles, he had little to show for all the travel. He was providing security for an organized-crime boss but the information he was gathering was unlikely to ever be used in an American courtroom. He had collected hours of audio and video on a tiny recording device—and dutifully passed more than thirty micro-m
emory chips to Wilson, his “coordinator.” But Gabe also knew that unless he was brought into Yeong’s inner circle, he wasn’t likely to accomplish his mission: “Find out everything you can about what’s going on between Pyongyang and Tehran.”

  Gabe’s bosses in Washington were excited about Yeong’s visit to Kish Island and the images of the North Korean and Iranian participants he brought back. But there was precious little audio and Gabe had not been allowed inside the meetings Yeong attended.

  Sonny Cho’s murder threw a wrench in the works. Some at CIA headquarters in Langley who knew about the connection between Cho’s brother and Gabe’s job on Yeong’s PSD urged that Gabe be pulled off the assignment. Others said the mission was too important a national security matter to pull him out at the first sign of trouble. Wilson left it up to Gabe.

  Gabe had learned in the Marine Corps to run to—not from—the sound of gunfire. His hope was not only in situational awareness developed in combat and instilled in the training he received at the CIA’s “Farm” in Virginia but the intelligence-gathering devices available to the federal government. So far Cho’s murder remained a mystery . . . to the Korean criminal community, the Beverly Hills police, and Gabe’s government handlers.

  Though Gabe had tried to distance himself from Cho, all the members of Yeong’s security team had shared beers at the bar with Cho. Some of them, Gabe included, had even dined with Sonny at the same table where Park and Yeong were now sitting. It was not unusual for the “off-duty” members of the security team to gather at the end of a long day of doing Henry Yeong’s bidding to down a few cold ones and complain about management . . . criminal syndicate management. Since Candy was the perfect hostess and gorgeous, the men enjoyed spending time with her, sharing stories even if embellished, and hoping to be rewarded with her smile. Gabe concluded that nearly every member of Yeong’s cadre should be equally suspect and that would ameliorate the risk of being discovered.

  To his credit, Wilson pointed out the risks. “Look,” he told his young charge, “there were less than two degrees of separation between you and Cho. Both of you were tasked with investigating the Supernote: you by the CIA and Cho by the Secret Service. The reports and audio files you’ve sent in show he was a big talker and he claimed to have dated both Park’s daughter, Jenny, and that bar princess, Candy. The profile on Cho says he fancied himself to be a ‘ladies’ man,’ though how a guy with his looks and personality could have been is beyond me.”

  “Yeah,” said Gabe with a smile, “and his breath was rancid.”

  Wilson continued, “Your aud/vid recordings make it clear you were practicing good tradecraft by trying to avoid Cho, but there are several where you caught him spinning yarns and bullshitting Candy and others about the work he supposedly did for Yeong. More than once he can be seen and heard asking others about the Supernote. When I saw what you had gotten, I called Bauer at Secret Service and suggested they pull Cho in and whip him into shape. Sounds weird, but Bauer was acting as case officer for Cho and was afraid his boy might skip the country if he leaned too hard on him.

  “Of course, Langley didn’t want that to happen because of the link between you and Cho’s brother. If Cho had split, we would have had to pull you out. Unfortunately, we don’t know for sure how much Sonny told others about your connection with his brother and your getting hired on with Yeong’s PSD.

  “I called Langley and asked them to ping NSA for anything they can suck out of their ‘music collection’ from Cho’s phone calls and computer files, but the hackers at Fort Meade say it will take two to three weeks to search for it.”

  Gabe nodded and said, “It figures. Another case of too much data.”

  “To the extent that there is any good news in all this, NSA is now hitting every phone number and URL we know of for both Park and Yeong and all their known associates for any live hits that mention your name.”

  “In real time or delay?”

  Wilson reflected a moment, then said, “The FISA order says real time because your life is at risk. But you and I know that means hours at best—not minutes—and it’s usually seconds that really matter. You want to stay in or we can pull you. It’s your call.”

  The young CIA Clandestine Service officer reflected on what Wilson said. Gabe had observed Cho’s sleuthing tactics to be less than perfect and twice warned the Korean gangster to work the silence. Finally, he considered that everyone knew Sonny Cho truly enjoyed hearing himself talk and that anyone who cared would conclude Cho’s big mouth had somehow gotten him killed. After reflecting for a few moments on what Wilson had told him and what he already knew, Gabe said, “I’ll stay in.”

  Though they weren’t participants in the discussion at the table, Gabe and Li from Park’s security detail could easily hear all that was being said by the two crime bosses. Gabe hoped his miniature recording device was capturing the audio and video of this unprecedented meeting. What the tiny lens couldn’t catch were the security personnel of both participants posted outside at the front and back doors.

  Every U.S. agency involved in this operation knew that unlike the Italian Mafia, there is no “commission” overseeing Korean organized crime in Los Angeles. Yeong and Park called the shots in Southern California. But only Gabe and a handful of others knew both men had been sent to Los Angeles by the North Korean regime, relying on Pyongyang’s criminal empire to furnish the contraband being distributed in L.A. and throughout the United States.

  Depending upon their respective overseas contacts, they could get a long list of contraband products from a variety of sources in North Korea, China, Russia, Indonesia, Mexico, Latin America, and Southwest Asia. Both the Park and Yeong organizations had networks of “shoppers” scouring a global underground marketplace for everything from sophisticated phony pharmaceuticals to the counterfeit Rolex watches Tommy Hwan was distributing.

  The two crime bosses had vied for the lucrative privilege of distributing Supernotes in the Americas. By listening carefully to the conversation, Gabe discerned Office 39 in Pyongyang made the decision: Park would have exclusive rights for distribution in the United States and Mexico. Yeong was now the sole distributor in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia—but not China or South Korea. Others, apparently unknown to Park, Yeong, or U.S. authorities, were given distribution rights in Europe and Latin America.

  “We have had our differences,” said Park.

  “We have,” replied Yeong.

  “But I had no reason to kill Cho. He served you, not me. He never betrayed me nor have we engaged in any type of business venture.”

  “He dated your daughter,” said Yeong.

  “Briefly, after her husband’s death, but Jenny had no interest in him. He offered little to her and she moved on to others.”

  “So I have heard,” said Yeong, a little too quickly.

  “Do you want to explain that comment?” asked Park, a hint of anger in his voice.

  “I didn’t say that to offend you. I only know Jenny has dated others.”

  Park seemed somewhat satisfied with the answer and continued. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead. Cho had some success in business but was a weak man who constantly demanded reassurance of his manhood. He was much too needy for my daughter, demanding to have his ego constantly stroked.”

  Yeong thought briefly, then nodded. “Maybe you are right.”

  “He also talked too much.” Park flapped his fingers as if imitating lips moving.

  Yeong nodded and took a long sip of his tea. “By that do you mean you suspect he was speaking to the police?”

  “What do you think? He knew few of my secrets and could discuss my work only in generalities. He could, however, tell them of your activities in more detail,” said Park.

  “But do you suspect him of being an informant?”

  “I spent little time with the man but I must say a man who likes to talk often seeks a listening ear. If the police or FBI offered that listening ear he might have spoken at length.”


  Yeong put the teacup down and looked out toward the street, his mind questioning whether his business associate would have revealed secrets to the authorities. It never occurred to him Cho could be an informant. Fear washed over him as he reflected on all the crimes he committed or discussed in Cho’s presence that would be of interest to the authorities.

  “Did he have enemies?” asked Park, changing the direction of the inquiry.

  Henry Yeong turned toward Park and shrugged, throwing open his hands. “We all have enemies but I know of none who would wish him dead. There may have been men who would like to see him fail in business but that doesn’t call for his murder.”

  “Possibly he cheated someone in the past who was now seeking retribution.” Then Park smiled, knowing Cho was heavily engaged in several of Yeong’s criminal enterprises. “He spent time in prison. Could the Americans have recruited him while he was locked up?”

  Yeong understood the smile, tugged at his collar, and replied, “Perhaps.”

  “Was he working on any special projects for you?”

  Now Yeong smiled. “Those ‘special projects’ as you call them do not concern you.”

  “Then I think we have nothing further to discuss. I can assure you I had nothing to do with his death. I’m sorry for your loss,” said Park.

  Yeong waved the back of his hand, as if saying Cho’s death was not that important. “My concern is not his death but our survival. We have both received orders from those who dispatched us here many years ago from our home country. The message I received said we are to cooperate in the distribution of certain currency.”

  Park simply nodded.

  “The courier also said we will be informed in the next few days about other matters in which we are to cooperate.”

  Park nodded again and said, “Yes, that is so. But I suspect you already know something of these other matters since you went to the meeting at Kish Island.”